Saving Graces
by Claqueur
Summary: The good Doctor Grout's last night on earth. Not much more to say about it.
1. The Last Night

**Disclaimer: I do not make any money with this. It's a FANFIC, for cryin' out loud! I own nada. The good people at WhiteWolf and Troika do. Unfortunately, they didn't make any money with this either. **

**First things first: if you're reading this, you're awesome! Period. **

**If you see fit to drop me a line, your awesome beyond words. **

**This is the first piece of writing I did in a long, long, looong time. Since I'd like to get better at it, I would appreciate your collective advice very much. Same goes for advice on grammar and spelling. English is not my first language and I'd like to improve at _that _too.**

**Anyway, early drafts of this have been sitting in my document's folder since my first play-through of VTM:BL. I always wondered how you go about chaining up a powerful and paranoid Malkavian Primogen, _who expects an attempt on his un-life! _**

**Basically, this chapter is a teaser. At a rough estimation, Saving Graces will amount to three or four chapters, all in all. These will contain: lots of yaking, hardly any action but some gore and adult content later on. Consider yourself warned!**

**Thank you very, very much for reading!**

**Claqueur**

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**Saving Graces**

**The Last Night**

Standing on the tower-walk, his gaze reached as far as the sea. He could almost hear the gushing of its restless movement.

He could certainly hear the endless din of the city. It spread out before his feet, glittering like a vaudeville dancer's veil, cast to the ground, to reveal her cheap, fleshly charms.

What a blinking, rushing, screeching absurdity had this city become, over what? The last six, seven decades?

Resting his long, blue veined hands on the walk's banister, Alistair Grout lent heavily down on the carved stone. His narrow back was bowed in a perfect arch, like a willow tree under heavy, killing snow, bent almost to breaking point. Thick strands of stiff, iron gray hair fell over his brow and hid the abysmal sight of Los Angeles by night.

'Was it enough?'

He had done everything in his considerable power, both supernatural and mundane, to ensure his home had – indeed – been transformed into an impenetrable castle. These past nights, since he had become certain that the Prince sought his final death, had been filled with fever pitch activity. Old favors were called due at the downtown chantry, loose ends within the city gathered up and cauterized, supernatural alerts and defenses set all over his haven and finally: all contact to the Kindred world - cut.

And yet – was it - _could it be_ – enough? With the last trap set, the last little mind game in motion, doubt had started to consume him. The moment when there had been nothing more he could do, the voices had subsided.

They never left him completely these days, though; he could still hear them, echoing softly through the corridors, nagging, drowned out to intelligibility by his subjects constant moaning and gibbering. Useless wretches.

'Was it enough?' A slow, rippling shudder racked his elegant, bony limbs.

When he had first met the Prince, he had spared the man little thought, truth be told. The vampiric equivalent of a ruthless social climber, a corporate Bonaparte, a Kindred conquistador – nothing Grout had not seen in countless guises, over the course of the last hundred and forty years of his adult live. Powerful? Yes, no doubt, but not someone to concern him much, their interests just too different.

What a fool he'd been.

_The tunnel's entrance lies below the roots of a twisted old willow tree, half-dead with rot. Through its draping branches, still in the damp and motionless night air, stars can be seen, few and far between, weakened by a fine mist, high above the hills. _

_A house can be seen, too, on the crest of the foothill. It stands alone, beautiful and aged. Solitary windows light up with amber glow from time to time, only to fall dark once again. Sometimes, a shadow twitches past. _

_The tree's roots, covered in mold and lichen, droop over the tunnel's mouth, which borrows into the hillside, almost hiding it from view. That earth-clotted maw is pitch black and narrow. Its breath reeks of stale, damp earth and putrid things, like the grave. _

_A man, be his body emaciated but his mind strong enough - his soul past human fears like that of suffocating dark and throttling earth - might just be able to squirm, crawl on his stomach like a borrowing animal, down that tunnel and up, pushing past those moldy limbs. _

_Writhing out of the earth, as a worm from an apple, howling wordless, mindless pain at the havens. _

_Something might wriggle – maggot-like - into that mouth and slide along the crumbling tube, deep into the hill, up to that house. _

_Something does._


	2. Chrysanthemum

**First of all: Flying Frog & rednightmare - you guys freaking ROCK! Thank you very much for the very, very kind and encouraging reviews. Also for awesome super-speed (Flying Frog) and inspiring -****indepth - thoroughness (rednightmare). To all you others who chose to read 'Last Night': well, you guys rock too, hard. Where is nothing more amazing than knowing that someone actually _read _what you thought up!**

**Sorry for the late up-date, but this one...sprawled. **

**Extra special thanks to rednightmare for mentioning my tale in her Byzantine Black (which is a must-read, in the unlikely case anyone here hasn't read it yet) shout-outs. O_o It's an honor, kind Lady *curtsies* **

**About 'Crysanthemum': I took some artistic liberties with the overall layout of Doctor Grout's House of Horrors. For one thing - much_bigger_basement! Hope you enjoy!**

**Thanks to NoFacesOnlyMasks (thanks again!) I could correct some awkward mistakes in this chapter. Everything that is still spelled or punctuated wrong, is a result of me, being thick headed and / or oblivious. **

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******Saving Graces**

**Chrysanthemum**

Pride.

The doctor's anemic lips pressed into a hard, bitter line.

He could see it quite clearly now. It had been his _damnable_ pride - and his desire to advance his studies - that had doomed him. He had spent the length of a human lifetime contentedly secluded with his wife, his books, and a few choice subjects in these hills. Their existence had been blissfully uneventful.

But no, oh no…a bit of flattery, some cryptic promises of arcane knowledge and he had involved himself in the city's politics, something no rational scientist had any business to do.

To be completely fair, his studies _had _advanced - considerably and in hitherto unthought-of directions. These nights he very rarely made use of his surgical equipment to plunge through skin, flesh and bone to reach the mind underneath. His vampiric powers had grown so much, that now he could strip a subject's mind bare, till nothing but the animalistic core was left, with nary a thought.

And his senses…his senses had grown to an extant that, if he was honest, was alarming.

Most nights he was confident that he was in control, though, the sole master of his faculties. Those voices, which had started to assail him a few months back, in fact, were a point in case.

Another man - of a less academic background - would have panicked, afraid that he was losing his mind. Not he; not Doctor Alistair Grout, the man of science. After the initial alarm they caused him, he had verified the merit of those whispers with a series of tests; scrupulously sticking to the scientific methods he valued so much. And when they had proven to be legitimate, he had no qualms to acknowledge them and make use of the fascinating insights they offered into the predatory minds surrounding him. Not all minds were safe to glimpse though, and for the first time in his life, he now had knowledge of things he would rather not know about.

A sigh hissed past the thin line of his lips, a remnant of breath, taken hours before.

He knew the Prince would not dare to send his savage after him. Of that much he was certain. LaCroix was loath to separate from that brute of his. No hint of princely involvement in an attempt on a Primogen's life could ever be traced back to him either, should he want to stay in power.

And power was more important to that suave beast than even the live-sustaining blood that defined their existence.

Grout had little doubt that said beast meant his end to be excruciating. Making the Prince feel vulnerable, or like a fool, could never be forgiven. Knowing this, Grout had fled to his haven and barricaded himself inside.

Pondering what kind of execution LaCroix had planned for him was truly testing his nerves, though. He was certainly no coward, but he was not an overly physically inclined man and he abhorred violent conflict. It was always the hallmark of civilization's failure. The notion what he would have to contend with some feral, supernatural thugs – just to satisfy a ravenous thirst for caesarian retaliation and operatic bloodshed – quite honestly insulted his sensibilities.

The Doctor braced his white fingertips against the rough brick-work that had supported him during his musings. It felt unpleasantly clammy. The hills surrounding the mansion had fallen utterly silent.

Maybe he should simply save Sebastian the trouble (and himself the indignity), of having to industriously plot a save way to the Primogen's gruesome demise. That Savile Row clad blackguard had a busy nightly schedule, after all. So inconsiderate of him to interfere.

A mirthless smile tugged at Grout's lips, stretching the skin on his gaunt face tight.

A proper, roman solution had a certain appeal. Like a good Senator of old, who had the misfortune to alienate some praetorian supported emperor, he could finish this travesty on his own terms, in comfort and with dignity. Poison was out of the question of course, but a nice, room-temperature bath and a skillfully wielded scalpel, maybe? It was the most unpretentious way to go available to him. Bleeding out would take some time, given his condition, but was as sure to end him as any mortal man.

The last wisp of breath was exhaled in one drawn out, quiet sigh.

Slowly, very slowly, his shoulders rose, pulling his back straight, his chin still pointing to his sternum. Lanky arms were now stretched out before him, his long fingers spread as wide as they would go, fingertips resting with a feather's touch on the crenellated brick-work in front of him.

He couldn't quite bring himself to raise his gaze and look – even for a moment – at the glimmering, humming maelstrom below. He was sure the sight would cause him severe vertigo. So Grout pressed his eyes shut and let his head tilt back with a snap. Stars assumedly would be a bearable sight. His lids fell back from his eyes and the night sky was revealed.

Alas, no luck. A dirty gray haze enshrouded those lights and only a few of them had the strength to pierce it. Those that _did_ glare down on him looked like baleful, frost-fire eyes, peeking from an endless void. He felt he was far too familiar with this kind of gaze, already.

Observing that pitiful celestial display, he suddenly realized that he had stood here, on the walk, unmoving and unaware, for the better part of the night. The constellations had begun to fall towards morning, while he indulged his musings.

His gaze fell away from the void above. Grout wearily shook his head. Strands of his gray hair brushed over his face, stiff and coarse like quills. His bones felt brittle, as if sudden movement might splinter them; it took effort of will to move, to not fall back into inanimate introspection again.

A fine sentinel he was, getting lost in his own thoughts like this. The prince's puppet soldiers of choice might have been squatting on his porch, beating futilely against his front door for hours, without him taking notice. Or maybe not; any such assault would cause a dreadful commotion, considering the incredible forces which sealed the single entrance to his mansion shut, thanks to Mister Tesla. He really ought to return into the mansion proper, before a sunrise incinerated him, due to preoccupation and fretting. That would be a far too ridiculous end.

Grout turned away from the city's vista, toward the door on his left, which led to the inner cambers and, eventually, to his sanctum. It happened suddenly - his hand a hair's breadth from touching the door's iron handle. What had been a simple porch, only a moment before, had transformed into a dread portal. Unnatural cold emanated through inch-thick planks, burning his fingertips. Sourceless dark enshrouded the gate's face, as if meaning to hide the familiar, fine carvings. Soot black ironwork, spread over oak wood, strained and stretched as if hell itself was locked in on its other side. Heavy, fire-hardened wood seemed to bulge with unimaginable, alien forces, relentlessly pressing against it from the inside; medieval, siege-tried material as strong and solid as threadbare silken drapery.

In the time it took a living heart to beat once, horror had transported the Doctor to the middle of the tower's walk; exactly as far away as was possible from both doors leading down into the house.

_The tunnel opens into a shallow pit, dug into the gravel beneath the labyrinthine basements of that high-crested stronghold. Cracked stone slabs are thrown away from the moldy groove, making a tight, jagged-edged exit in a far corner of forgotten sub-cellar. _

_The air is dank and musty, unturned by breath for ages. Chill seeps from long-buried granite. This place was never meant to have lights. But now a faint, sickly glow, like marsh lights, reflects off moisture, gives deceiving form to slick stone and makes dull, blunt, blood-markings stand out._

_The floor is littered with crumbling mortar and bodies of brackish water. Clammy grime covers the foundation's dark blocks. Wooden beams and pillars have become brittle; spongy white fungi are swelling from fissures and pale, tiny, hungry, things borrow in their cracks. The cellar is wide, long and low-slung, the ceiling so close a man could not stand upright, but would have to hunch over and scurry through the under-earth blackness, like a troglodyte. Blood has left erosive, decayed marks on floor and walls here, where it oozed from broken fingernails - splintered on stone, leaked from gravel-shredded hands, mutilated limbs and abused knees. It adds a hint of rot to the air._

_An empty vault, of no discernible purpose, other then maybe as a reservoir for shreds of sound. They resonate from tubes and hollows in the walls, up and down ventilation shafts, which connect the lowest depths to the highest reaches. Notes of a waltz, crackling static, incessant laughter, moaning and scratching, small bits of conversation as well as the groaning and creaking of aged wood and masonry, are trapped down here. Echoes skitter to and fro these stony chambers. All of it a gentle, sourceless cacophony. These sounds latch onto any intruder like inquisitive vermin. They follow along dark, bending corridors, through cold halls of supporting arches – home of fearful rodents, insects, and long forgotten remains - up slippery, uncomfortably low steps. _

_The threshold to the basement is a narrow passageway, hardly higher or wider than a tall, thin man, defined by two sets of steps leading up-wards on either end. The doorway leading into the foundations is stygian-blackness, framed in cold, rough stone. March-light shimmer and clinging whispers do not proceed further than this, wavering in the peeked. Sickish, pale glow and timid voices are equally drowned by the powers that roam beyond the opposite arch-way. _

_Thunderstorm-strong discharges fill the undercroft above. That electrical chrysanthemum makes its presence known by flashing blinding light and utter darkness, rendering the corridor ahead in sharp relief, alternating black, white, and Elmo's fire blue. Nothing but the furor of harnessed lightning can be heard. Walls vibrate with the constant impact of spreading energies. The air is dense, crackling with static and brimming with the smell of dry lightning. _

_This elemental core reigns supreme, barring passage to all, but its rightful master. Like with the holy flower, after which it is named, there is more to it than meets the eye. The lightning –heart is the main node of energies, which circulate through the whole mansion. Primal energy leaps through space, from one smaller node to the other, humming through floors, walls, doors, ceilings and the very atmosphere. It seals the mansion more securely against intrusion than any number of sophisticated locks could. As long as it is in balance._

_From the darkness under the arch leading down to the foundations, arises a crooning. It does not reach out to ears, but to wounded hearts and lost souls. It sings a tune every child learned on its mother's knees; without words it speaks of warmth, safety and home._

_Come to me my child, so I may take care of you. Come to me my child, I will take away your pains, your fears and your worries. Come to me my child, so I may love you. Come to me my darling child - the way is safe. _

_The wretches above stir in their master's choke-hold, become restive - a few wander down a flight of steps at random. Instinct, heightened by their master's blood, stops most of them. One slinks further down the steps, along a tiled hallway, and pauses by a heavy, insulated door. He is new to the fold, his skin - bronzed on L.A.'s muscle beach - is not yet waning, surf couture at odds with Edwardian surroundings. His newly cracked mind is an upside down jigsaw of suffering. He can't even remember his name anymore. All he knows is that he wants to see his mom again._

_Titanic, sizzling fingers snatch the wretch into the air. Forces strong enough to split the sky, run over his body, knife into twitching nerves, rip flesh from limbs, break bones and burn blood to ashes - scatter what remains over polished floor and pedestals. But not before he had reached, and pulled, the first of the levers._

_Nothing much changes - one tendril of energy falls silent, the overall level of power drops a little, almost imperceptibly._

_It is enough. Balance is corrupted._

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**Aftertought: 1- bloody short chapter, 2 - bloody _long _chapter; I'll try for some middle ground with the next one. It'll be 'Anima Mea' and I'm pretty excited about it (translation - paniced). Its central theme is what I first came up with then I started to think about Grout. **


	3. Anima Mea

**Update took a bit longer than I thought it would - writing dialog is **_**scary**_**! Thank you for your patience, all.**

**Extra special, **_**hysterical**_** thanks for my awesome, insightful, smart, kind, inspiring and very, very helpful reviewers: November Bravo, The Flying Frog, rednightmare, stravvberry and NoFacesOnlyMasks! You all deserve cookies! **

**November Bravo asked what I meant by 'the holy flower' last chapter. Err, yes, my bad. It's the chrysanthemum. I named my supped up version of the electrical trap 'The Chrysanthemum' because, in many Asian cultures, that flower is venerated as a symbol for autumn, longevity, happiness and nobleness. Westerners know it as a typical funeral flower, on the other hand. I don't think it is exactly 'holy', but close enough. I thought that name and association very fitting, dropped it into the text, and when made the connections not clear enough. Like I said, my bad, not yours, thank you for pointing it out! I'll try to do better, promised. **

**Last but not least: THANK YOU FOR READING! All of you! Review or not. You're awesome!**

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**Saving Graces**

**Anima Mea**

The vision of doom crumbled as suddenly as it had appeared. One moment, both doors leading down had seemed portals of ultimate doom - and now they were nothing more than ordinary gateways again. Grout squinted at the door before him with the utmost distrust. He had never been in the habit of doubting his senses and now did not seem to be the best time to start. As fanciful as that image had been, he felt not inclined to disregard it. The thought of touching one of those doors still filled him with a deep unease. There could very well be something wrong.

He had not seen anything out of the ordinary during the last few hours. There had not been any unexpected noises for miles around, just a slight dampening of sound in the surrounding hills.

Grout turned back to the banister and placed his hands lightly on the stone, like a pianist would place his hands on a piano's keys. He closed his eyes, to shut out the sight of the blinking Babylon below and did his best to ignore its incessant clamoring. Gently, he pressed his fingertips down on the porous, cool stone.

There it was; a soft vibration, unnoticeable by merely human senses, an infinitely intricate rhythm, so complex, it might be taken for a dissonance, by the uninformed. This was the mansion's pulse, thrumming through every stone, every beam, permeating even the empty space, connecting the very air to walls and floors and ceiling. The same force lighted lamps, kept doors locked and opened secret passageways, its thunderstorm core not throbbing, but continuously discharging electrical impulses, several stories below him. Nikola Tesla's master piece, constructed after Grout's own specifications. He knew its song better than he once knew his own heartbeat, as a living man. No disturbance of the energy's flow was noticeable - he could track every single moving thing within the mansion, by the fluctuations caused in that flow. Crowded as his haven was at the moment, he was sure there was nothing untoward here.

So, that just left…Eyes still squeezed shut, he held his face high and inhaled deeply, testing the air for any suspicious trace of scent. Moldy, damp earth, evergreens and wildflowers, exhaust fumes, heated black-top, sweat and garbage, rotting algae, tanning lotion, a faint aroma of sea salt and…acid? What…? One deep-edged line appeared between gull-wing shaped, ash-grey eyebrows.

But there was something else still, immeasurably faint and unexpected, like a heart note of pure Turkish damascene rose, found in the flashy, revoltingly pungent perfume of a cheap prostitute. As depression had during the past hours, so indecision rooted him now, immobile as stone, to the spot. He was torn between the urge to gulp down another lung full of air, to make sure that fragrance was not a product of his imagination, and fear that further analysis might reveal that it was just that – his imagination, his never-dying hope, playing tricks on him.

Nothing for it; one way or another, he had to make sure. Carefully, he released that breath – and that particular, elusive aroma – and breathed in again. It filled his sinuses like benediction, a sweet, clean fragrance like rain-fresh roses, spring grass and water-lily. His eyes snapped open and he stared unseeingly out, over the city. His bony chest began to rise and fall in an effort to fan this exquisite fragrance over his palate again and again. He straightened his long-limped body up to its full height, drew his shoulders back and turned around in one swift, effortless motion.

It vaguely crossed his mind, that after all this time it should not affect him so to see her. But it did, it always did.

_

* * *

__It had been spring, when he had first met her, at some New England garden party, which could not be avoided, for reasons he did not quite remember anymore. Maybe he had thought he needed to be social now and then, in order not to turn into the caricature of an ivory-tower scientist. As was to be expected, he had had a dismal time. _

_He had wandered away from the main hubbub, to avoid any more inane conversations about his stay in Europe, with another, equally inane, debutante and matron duo, for whom 'Paris' meant all sorts of ridiculous things and 'Sorbonne' meant nothing at all. One more high pitched request to know what women were wearing this season in Paris or London and he feared he would not be able to hold onto his gentlemanly countenance. Heavens, he had come back at least three years ago. _

_In his haste to get away_ _from the party and_ _deep in troubled thought, he had not paid enough attention to: whereto - and so it happened that suddenly he found himself standing in front of a young lady, sadly unprepared for polite conversation. Realizing he was not alone, he winced guiltily and looked up. _

_A vision in white: softly radiant like the full moon but bright and as warm as the sun at the same time. She sat on a small marble bench, in the center of a half-circle of blooming cherry trees, her simple, silk chiffon summer dress the same color as the blossoms surrounding her like a halo of brilliant clouds. Her parasol was lying in the grass at her feet, as was her hat. Spring sun shone down on her unhalted and her tresses gleamed like polished copper and mahogany. But it was her eyes which arrested him so completely._

_To call them brown was doing them injustice akin to calling Crater Lake 'blue'. They are a vibrant, luminous amber color, deep-set and a bit too wide for her delicate, heart-shaped face. Everything about her is delicate, frail and infinitely precious. _

_Eleanor._

* * *

She stood on the opposite side of the walk, framed by the rising vista of the Hollywood Hills. She looked exceptionally well, dressed in an elegant evening dress of holly green and scarab blue silk, her thick mane of soft, auburn hair loosely pinned back with ebony combs, to hide its chopped off ends.

The full moon had wrestled free of its constricting veil of mist for a moment and cast Grout's narrow shadow across the walk to nearly touch the hem of her skirt. Its light shimmered softly on silver inlays and folded silk, coaxing sparks of cinnamon and honey from the night darkened coils of her hair, and clearly illuminated her fine features.

"Alistair?"

Grout blinked and shook himself out of his daze. "I am frightfully sorry my dear. You were saying?"

His wife sighed patiently. "I asked you to listen very carefully to me, Alistair."

"Oh." _Damn!_

She cocked her head slightly to one side and a very wifely expression of amusement crossed her features. "Well, I guess I'll have to forgive you. Obviously, I'm not the only one you were too preoccupied to pay attention to."

His incomprehension must have registered clearly on his face, since with a raised eyebrow, a slight dip of her chin and a pursed, rosebud mouth, she gave his appearance a pointed look. Grout followed her glance and looked himself up and down. He realized instantly what she meant. He had not changed his clothes for…well, to be honest, he could not say when he had changed the last time. The gray suite he wore was in a terrible state. Coat and waistcoat were un-buttoned and rumpled, white shirt creased and the cuffs blood-stained. Square, onyx cufflinks were thankfully still attached, but his tie and pocket-handkerchief had vanished. His skin had that telltale pallor of depletion and he felt strands of coarse, greasy hair - usually held in check and slicked back by ungodly amounts of pomade – sting temples, cheekbones and the tender skin around his eyes.

_I must look like some deranged madman! _No wonder she had come up here despite her tender condition. Poor Eleanor surely had worried herself sick these past nights, show of good humor notwithstanding. His hands flew up, seemingly on their own accord, and hastily tried to fix his appearance, tugging at lapels and attempting to smooth arrant forelocks back simultaneously, with limited success. A moment later he gave up with a dejected sigh. No use; it was not like he could fool his keen-eyed spouse - now or ever. He clasped his fidgeting hands firmly behind his back and fixed his gaze on his wife's expression.

Yes, she did look _very_ apprehensive, wringing her small, white hands before the darkness of her skirts, dancer's back almost painfully erect, pearl white teeth buried into the left side of her cherry-red lower lip; face set and beautiful eyes resting onhim searchingly, anxious. He wanted to reach out to her, but let his arms fall limp at his sides instead. All possible excuses for his behavior became obsolete. He could have kicked himself.

"I am terribly, terribly sorry my dear. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to cause you alarm. The changes in our home must have been frightening to you. I should never have let it to come to this. I should have done better...found a way to ward off that, that _monster,_ without you ever taking notice, should not have allowed my politicking to interfere with the search for your cure…your safety! I failed. I failed you my love. I brought disaster upon us!" His voice had been steadily rising in volume during his self-accusations. He shook his head disparagingly. "I am a horrible husband to you." This, he could only whisper.

His wife was not having any of it, though. Eleanor had been shaking her head determinedly, since he began his diatribe. Silvery black combs lost their grip and fiery tresses of molten copper danced around her flushed face. She had balled her childlike hands into tiny, hard fists, as if she meant to attack something.

"Enough! This isn't about me, it's about _you_, Alistair!" she nearly cried. She took a deep, shaking breath and continued with forced clam, "Beloved, I am fine. It is you I am worried about."

Her dumbfounded husband could just stare at her, his tongue caught behind his teeth. "My dear…"

But Eleanor would not let him continue. "Why are you still here? If LaCroix is as dangerous and tenacious as you believe, you are not safe in the mansion. He will know exactly there to find you and while you hide, he has all the time in the world to mobilize his resources and aim them at you! Here you stand with your back to the wall and all the Prince has to do is find a way to pick you off. The mansion is not as secure as you like to think, other Kindred can find ways to circumvent your defenses. You know it has been done before! Please, for the love you bear me, leave, no _run, _now - this very night," she pleaded, wide eyed.

Alistair was shocked, plain and simple. He had never seen his beloved this desperate, or this afraid. He started as if to gather her in his arms, but stopped himself in time. The important thing now was to reassure her. He had an uncomfortable notion where this conversation would be heading if he did not succeed at putting her worries to rest. "Eleanor, I have greatly improved the mansion's defenses since that unsavory incident." _Indeed, if this blows over somehow, I will explain the sanctity of home and Haven in some depth to Miss Voerman and her 'sister'- in case 'they' have not killed each other until then._ The thought filled him with grim satisfaction.

"Sebastian's reach is very long indeed, as is his memory. We would not be safe, no matter where we would go. There is no way I could create similar defenses anywhere else on such short notice. It took _years_ of preparation to move the household from the East Coast to Los Angeles, as you will remember," Grout sighed "I just cannot make sure of your safety abroad. I know, I should have prepared for a situation like this years before; I have been counseled to do so, in fact, but I grew complacent. My mistake, I admit it. You just have to trust that I am _very_ capable of defending us, here on my own…ah, _home field_, so to say." He gave her a wan smile.

If anything, Eleanor looked even more worried than before, she seemed close to tears. "You _can't_ fight what is coming; the Prince made sure of that. He knows your weaknesses too well by now. Alistair, for once, you have to think of your safety before mine. _Leave immediately_. Vanish into thin air. You can do that. There is no need for the protections that were necessary a hundred years ago, you have moved far beyond that." She visibly swallowed, clearly dreading the next bit. She lowered her voice to a gentle murmur, reasonable and cajoling at the same time. Its pitch alone melted his bones. "You can't take me, my love - doing so will be your doom. Try and forget about me, just for a little while. I promise I will be fine, as long as you are, no matter what. Just _go_!"

There it was, just as he had feared, the one thing he had ever been able to deny her – leaving her. He could not turn his eyes from her, of course, but he pressed his fingertips into his temples to massage away an intense stab of pain. It was important not to shout, she was shaken enough as it was. He had to calm himself before answering her. _But how could she think he would be able to do such a thing, after everything he had put her through, all she had suffered… _When he felt able to be reasonable, his voice was still sounding more like a snarl than anything else. The breath that propelled his words was ragged and uneven."Do not _ever _suggest something like this again, Eleanor. I will not abandon you, for whatever reason. That is completely out of the question." He continued more gently, seeing her flinch under the force of his feelings. "Please understand, my love. I know you have my best interest at heart, but nothing, nothing is as important to me as you are, my darling. And that most assuredly includes my safety. Let us not ever speak of this again."

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head, slender fingers wound into the night blue silk of her skirt. Moisture glittered on her cheek like stardust. So quite was her voice, he nearly did not make out her words. "I was afraid you would react like this. But I had to try…" she looked up into his eyes and those agate depths dissolved all anger and offense he might have felt, instantly. He had never seen her so hopeless, so forlorn; and he had no way to comfort her, could not even brush away her tears. Still though it was, he felt as if his heart clenched into a hard fist, ripping at his insides. If only he could reach out to her… for one inane moment he felt that all their troubles would fade away, if he could only be with her for once. Dangerous. He knew too well to what kind of torture thinking like this would lead, he had been there before.

His wife had pulled herself together, without his help. She had dried away the tears and pretended they had never been there in the first place. Hands flat on the silk over her thighs, she tried to smooth the creases she had wrought into the stiff, shimmering fabric. Then she spook again she did so with deceptive nonchalance. "So, if you are set on staying…you should go and talk to Maximilian. He is your friend, he will help."

Grout almost sighed with relieve. _Safe ground, thank god!_

From Eleanor's point of view it was a wise suggestion. In many ways the Regent was a better friend to him than any of the few people he had called 'friend', before his infection made segregation from his former associates necessary. Grout valued the Tremere Primogen's opinion, enjoyed their conversations and generally respected that old alchemist's wealth of lore and mundane erudition (mired in superstition as it was). Many a mutual beneficial agreement had been made between them, since Grout's nomination as the Malkavian Primogen. In many ways, they were each other's closest allies in the Prince's court. Maximilian's increasingly urgent - yet unfailingly polite - attempts to reach him had been no small distraction these past nights, since he broke contact with his peers. It appeared like the cagey éminence gris had motivated the other Primogen to call on Grout as well; their attempts to contact him had become extremely annoying.

But what passed for friendship between vampires, was as different from the human relation of the same name as was the bonding of children from the relations adults might forge. Grout could not trust Maximilian anymore than LaCroix. The Tremere's interests and ambitions would always come before anything else and Grout could not fathom where he would stand in regard to the conflict between the Malkavian Primogen and the Prince.

Of course, Eleanor could not realize this. He had always tried his best to keep the darker aspects of Kindred nature from her. A small, fond smile tucked at the corner of his mouth. Even if he had tried to properly convey the harsh, predatory rules which were the foundations of this society to his love, her gentle, benign soul would never accept them.

The floorboards creaked under his shifting weight. The moon had wandered behind a cloudbank and shadows had shrouded Eleanor, so that he could hardly distinguish her from the surrounding night, dark blue and deep green silk merging with the hills behind her, face and hands just slivers of palest moonlight on the walk's boundary. He could still feel her gaze on him though, warm and loving, as clearly as he remembered the touch of her lips.

He shook his head sadly "I am afraid that is not possible. Maximilian's first and foremost concerns are his chantry's thriving and the Camarilla's stability in Los Angeles. Aiding me against LaCroix would jeopardize both and he could decide it was in his best interest to sell me out to the Prince, rather than taking that risk. Or he might want to make use of the secrets I learned for himself, at my expense. Either way, best not to test him." He could sense doubt creasing her smooth, rounded forehead prettily at this statement.

It was hardly noticeable, easily missed, but it hit him like lightning strike, none the less. The Chrysanthemum. The delicate distribution of its power throughout the mansion had tipped, like a spinning top, gyrating dizzily off center. Was this it? The attack he had been dreading so much? Quite possibly. He had to investigate immediately. A buzz ran through his body, following his veins; it felt almost like relief. He made a start for the door leading down to Tesla's device. A slight steering to his left stopped him in his tracks.

"Please beloved, let it go. This will be your last chance."

Everything but her amber eyes and a few strands of silken, fiery hair was swathed in darkness, her voice so weak he could hardly hear her anymore. He wished he could at least see her properly; it might be several nights before she found the strength to leave her rooms and speak to him again. But she was clearly exhausted, Grout realized suddenly. "My darling, forgive me. I was so glad of your company, I did not think of how strenuous such conversations are for you, given your condition. I am such a heel. Go to your rooms and rest! I will take care of…well I am sure it is nothing." He smiled reassuringly and with more confidence than he had felt for many nights. He could only guess the sad sinking of her head, shaking it only caused a flame like ripple in the dark.

"I wanted so much to warn you…but I fear I only distracted you, Alistair. Goodbye my love." Just a soft sigh, nearly lost in the first rising of wind this night.

"Nonsense, Eleanor, you are never a distraction. Do not worry so my darling, I will take care of you; always." Even to him that sounded more jovial than was appropriate, given her anxiety. But - he told himself - once he found out what had upset the Chrysanthemum, he would seek her out to make up for it. She had been so vibrant tonight maybe they could…He pushed that thought away forcefully. One thing after the other; if there was an intruder he would have to concentrate on dealing with them before he could explore any hopes for another joining with his wife.

He tried to catch a last look at Eleanor, but there was no sign of her to be found, she was gone. Shadows had taken over the space where his love had been. He sighed. They rarely had so much time together as tonight; it was unreasonable of him to be disappointed. But he could not help it.

He turned on his heel, pushed the door open and rushed down the winding, iron steps to the brightly lit halls of the mansion, with long, fluid strides.

**

* * *

**

**One this chapter: middle ground be damned! I'm a lot of things; succinct – ain't one of 'em. **

**On the friendship of Grout and Strauss: well, I just see these two as a perfect match, even if there is no hint of it in the game. Maybe it is the way Strauss holds forth in his balcony, looking down on Prince L.A., during the opening scene, but I've got this strong mental image of both Primogen going 'Walldorf and Stettler ' all over Kermit LaCroix' royal butt.**

**Next chapter(s): Next up is 'Sepulchre by the sea'. For those of you interested in such things, the title is a nod to the poem 'Annabel Lee' by E.A. Poe. For me, it pretty much sums up Alistair and Eleanor's relationship. I will probably take some time (again) before the next update. Sorry 'bout that. **

**Err hem: Dear readers, I'd just like to let you know - I'm rellay still working on this - very, very slowly. Also, there is going to be a slight change in the 'next chapter line-up'. Next chapters up will be: 'Menetekel' - 'Sepulchre by the sea' - and the finale - 'Parting gifts'. Thank you all, for your patience and support.**


	4. Menetekel part 1

**Hi guys! Err. Sorry it took me so long to update - with one thing and the other in RL - I sort of dropped the ball. Err. Um. New chapter below, though? At least the first part... So - no hard feelings, yes? Please? *insert puppy-eyed look here***

**Special and loooooooong overdue thanks to my very awesome reviewing people:**

**Flying Frog – thank you so much for your nice, lightning quick review! How do you do it? **

**November Bravo – heh, thank you **_**very **_**much – partly, you're comment about how Grout experiments on the dregs of society, made me think even more about his ghouls and that was how this chapter grew, from what was originally meant to be no more than a paragraph or two within 'Sepulchre by the sea', to 'Menetekel 1&2'. **

**rednightmare – thank you for your kind, enthusiastic and insightful review! I'm so very glad you like Eleanor and Grout, as a pair. I'm very fond of them. The idea of their love is what sprouted 'Saving Graces' and it is an incredible relief to see that I managed to convey my ideas about them. Eleanor's taking a little rest for now, but she'll be back with the next update.**

**NoFacesOnlyMasks – Gahh, where to begin? First – thank you so much for beta reading this! You did an absolutely amazing job! Hope my re-writes find your approval. ; ) Seriously, I can't thank you enough for that!**

**And thank you so very much for your review – it means so much to me, since it soothes my perpetual insecurity (I guess you can emphasize). I have to add something here, even though you did not point it out in your last review but elsewhere: I, too, was very disappointed then I found out during my first play through that I would not meet/confront Grout. Then I started to realize that we DO – we practically walk into the man's brain, his thoughts, his whole being, then we enter the mansion; the house is for all intents and purposes the man, and it's bat shit crazy and dying/dead – um, oh, oh. If I manage to capture a bit of that feeling in my story – Yay! Creeping people out makes me happy. **

**Stravvberry – Thank you, thank you, thank you! I waited something like four months with an update, specifically so you wouldn't need a dictionary to read it anymore. See, I had perfect trust that by now, your English would improve so that you could do without one! And I'm pretty sure it did. Um, I'm going to stick with that story to cover for my own update laziness, 'kay?**

**While reviews are the cream on my cup-cake and in my coffee, too, every single hit my story gets makes my day! Knowing that someone actually reads what I write is sooo gratifying!**

**So, review or not – thank you so very, very, **_**very much **_**for reading! You're all absolutely awesome!**

**And now, without further ado – a chapter.**

* * *

**Saving Graces**

**Menetekel part 1**

_Now_

_Corridors and stairways meander away from the Chrysanthemum's cradle, black and white floor tiles stretch ahead, pretending order. They are going left and going right, endlessly winding, unexpectedly doubling back on themselves, going nowhere or leading to the same places, over and over again. Worm-paths - hollowing out the white flesh of a shiny red apple - seething with grotesque, harmless, humanoid larvae. Some, the oldest, most bent to their Master's will, herd the others with malevolent glee, like crazed sheepdogs. They hiss at phantoms and snarl at shadows, who quickly swish around corners, before those mutts can decide to sound an alarm. _

_Flights of rooms cluster around them, and the rooms themselves interlock with rooms above and beneath and to the side. They fill the mansion's Edwardian shell like a three-dimensional maze. There are secret passageways, concealed chambers and whole, hidden suites of rooms - some dark and forgotten, but others frequently used. Trespassers and outsiders are not welcome here; the Mansion's very architecture spites them. Angles are slightly off, dimensions subtly wrong, colors vaguely worrying. Odd, alarming shadows flicker on the edge of perception. In some places, nothing and no one casts a shadow, at all._

_Some areas are, without apparent reason, fever pitch hot, others are cool and dark. There is nothing in between - calmly chill or arid heat. But everywhere, _everywhere_, static charge can be felt, a minor pressure on vulnerable skin; it makes surgically clean surfaces slightly sticky, raises the hair at the nape of the neck, as with the timid brush of a stranger's finger, jolts a steel needle of pain unexpectedly through flesh and bone. _

_The air is thick with mingling smells. None of them overpowering on their own, but all of them pervasive. The moldy odor of old silk, leather and wood polish, hot metal, iodine; ether caps it all - sweet and anesthetizing, like a wad of cotton wool, pressed over mouth and nose. And, of course, blood - blood in all its states, freshly spilled, congealing, drying, rotting. _

_Bronze pillars, ridged and skull-crowned, adorn halls and hallways like slender, age-darkened bones. The walls are covered with pallid silk, threaded with sinuous patterns, the color of subcutaneous tissue. Intricate lampshades, jigsaws made of crystallized chitin, shed fractured light - ruby, emerald and pale citrine._

_The air is filled with disjointed bits of sound again, irritating like invasive, buzzing insects. Skittering movement sounds from empty rooms, footsteps echo where no one walks. Impossible to discern the source of any particular sound – half a cry wanders aimlessly through these halls, like an abandoned, demented child, to lurk in a corner, far from its origin, for hours; another sound may wither before its time, smothered by numbing, dense air. _

_Every aspect of this elegant honeycomb has to be examined on its own. If an unaccustomed stranger was to try and capture the whole, they could be mesmerized, held in place - easy prey for the labyrinth's creator and chief denizen. _

She knew something was wrong. The whispering had changed. That endless, soothing susurrus - her home. Hissing, buzzing - vicious now. Fine, needle sharp tugs at her glistening, bare nerves. Not so bad right now, she could bear it. But it scared her. It made her quiver. Every now and then her hands flew up, as she wanted to cover her ears. That wouldn't help, she knew. The whispering was in her blood and bones. It had seeped into them, when everything else had gone. She had been hollow, and the whispering had filled her again. With feelings, memories, purposes, music, thoughts. Some measure of peace. She was thankful for that.

When the whispering had started to creep into her being, it had scared her, true – it was so alien. This was different, though. The whispering had never changed like this before. Mostly it was so muffled, she hardly felt it was there, like the air, cold or warmth, dark or light. Sometimes it was louder, clearer, demanding. She could nearly make out meaning then, some kind of sense. At those times, it was easier to distinguish her surroundings, to feel herself, to know what she was doing.

There had been warnings of late, too. She was sure of that. She had to be watchful, attentive. Her world was in peril. The whispering had said so. HIMSELF - had said so. Master's voice sounded over the whispering easily, like a fire bell. Be wary of outsiders. Slash them. Slay them. And now the whispering had changed so alarmingly…She was supposed to do something. What? Listen; she had to listen. But that scared her, scared her like looking for monsters under her bed.

Her fingertips fluttered over her mask, tugged at strands of her hair. She could do this, she could listen. Crouched - unable to relax her fear-clenched limbs enough to stand up straight - she sidled over to the nearest wall. Hunkered down and leaned against its ivory silk plain. Knee, hip and shoulder were covered in Kevlar, her face shielded from contact with the smooth surface by its leather and ceramic guard. Rolling her neck a little, she rested the small spot of skin on top of the ridge between temple and forehead, against the fine silk. Turning the tender, inner side of her lower arm towards the wall, and draping it in an arch over her head, she tried to lay as much of her bare skin on the delicate, eggshell white surface as was possible, pale fingers stroking raised, tan silk threads, which ran in lines and loops from floor to ceiling. Her other hand lay in her lap, loosely holding on to her big hunting knife, its cold, sharp edge a half forgotten appendage.

The whispering became instantly calmer, less ugly - tiny electrical riddles, twinkling down the silver strands of her synapses. She forced herself to listen, to do nothing but listen. Every muscle in her body twitched with whispered laughs and curses, every tingling note biting into her wounded brain. Shuddering and jerking with spasms, she listened hard.

* * *

Then

More than anything else, Charlotte wished she could stop listening. She could have sworn that those little whispers were trying to creep into her brain. Like tiny, friendly faced, wriggling, silvery worms – with real sharp teeth. Nightmarish cartoons. Her forward stumble suddenly turned into a collapse, her shaking legs not able to support her any longer. Already bruised knees hit thick, dusty carpet and scraped palms only just broke her fall, before her face hit the musty silk. Good thing, too - she didn't think she could get up again, once she was on the floor for good.

She knelt there, shaking and hurting, until she noted a new sound, close by. A gasping, rasping, staccato laugh, not loud, but right there with her.

_Oh God, it's me,__that is my voice! I'm having hysterics!_ And she couldn't stop, she just couldn't stop! _They are going to hear me! They are going to find me! _

Charlotte rammed her fist into her mouth to silence herself. Half crawling, half falling, she flung herself into the shadow of a spindly legged desk. She drew her knees up against her chest and pressed her chin into the nook between them. One arm she wrapped around her shins, the other she held to her side, her right hand still clamped hard on her mouth, to stifle her whimpering gasps. She fixed her wide open eyes on the doorway in the left hand wall, at the other end of the room.

She had woken up on a couch - an old fashioned, wood green, velvet couch. She had no idea how long ago. She lay on her side, facing the backrest. Its velvet was a bit threadbare and the padding sagged under her weight; she could feel the joints under her hip and shoulder. Her head rested heavily on some lumpy, heavy cushions. Their fabric felt scratchy against her cheek and smelt dusty, but clean at the same time. Un-lived in and old, sort of like her grandma's living room.

It was cold, a bit drafty; she felt an expanse of space behind her back. She wasn't cold – her clothes were damp, the room was chill, and she wasn't cold. And there was this strange taste in her mouth, like – no, like nothing she had tasted before. _How long have I been unconscious?_

Her clothes were damp, not soaking wet, as they should have been. The brand new, jade wool of the skirt suit had become stiff and felt-like. She could, without moving, see that the lining of her jacket stuck out of her sleeve. The skirt had wrapped itself uncomfortably about her hips and thighs. Her stockings twisted around her ankles, itched and stuck tight to her legs in places. She could smell the seawater her clothes had soaked up – salty and organic. _Is _that_ the taste in my mouth?_

She hadn't felt sore or beaten. She'd felt rested and limber. Not stiff limbed or numb at all, no headache, no nausea. Her head – she was sure she had bumped her head. Her head felt fine. Her throat didn't feel sore. She had thought it would. Instead, her tongue, her throat, even the paths leading to her lungs and tummy, seemed coated with something silky smooth, warm and vibrant.

That felt so good. So much better than her pills. So - solid. But she hardly dared to breathe. It was so quiet.

It was so quiet, Charlotte could hear her hair crackle as it moved on the cushion, in time with her heartbeat. She tried holding her breath, but even her smallest, involuntary movement made the couch creak and her clothes rustle; the thumping of her heart sounded like a jungle drum. And every little sound she made was sucked away into the void surrounding her divan. But the void gave nothing back; there could be anything or nothing at all behind her back. _You're just being childish, Charlotte. _She could practically hear her mother say that. Maybe she should try to remember how she came here? So she could figure out there she was?

Yet she'd kept staring at the vertical valleys of velvet and listening to the racket her racing heart made.

0

She remembered standing on the Santa Monika Pier and waiting, waiting for all the partygoers to go home, the roar of the rollercoaster to die. All the time she had looked out at the horizon; silvery black, opaque sea, melding with a clear blue-black sky full of stars. She didn't look down at the glassy waves, rolling and ebbing below her feet, under the pier. Not once.

Seawater surged down her throat instead of desperately needed air, rushed up her sinuses, slammed into her lungs – throttling her from inside with a cold, salt covered fist. Dark water closed like a vice around her body, too, and threw her against unyielding objects, dragging her over rough, sharp surfaces. She couldn't tell if she flailed frantically at the swirling dark herself, or if the currents whipped her limbs around like those of a spastic rag-doll. There was no 'up' and no 'down'. Only whirling, sucking, glassy blackness. An icy sun of pain exploded in her head slowly, at the base of her skull, pushing out, until it filled her whole body, up to her fingertips. One black star of pain - behind her eyes, in her bones, her muscles, under her skin. Black. Cold. Pain.

She cowered on the wet sand, between rocks and debris, retching up seawater until she began dry heaving. Desperately gasping for air, trying to gulp down a breath instead of violently wrenching out more turbid liquid. Finally, there was nothing else to cough up and she lay still, empty, hollow, face-down in the sand. Salt and sand filled her mouth and coated her split lips. She was too weak to spit it out. Her soggy clothes lay on her like a leaden blanket. She turned her head to the side. Strands of hair - a tangled, dripping nest of hairspray, salt, sand and tar - stung her eye, and there was a throbbing pain – a deep gash across her cheekbone. The whole side of her face felt swollen.

Waves rushed angrily at the shore, somewhere in that dark, at her feet, close by - but far enough away that they couldn't reach her. She could see only a small part of the beach, as if a flashlight's beam cut a narrow path through the night. Beyond that was only dark. At the end of the debris strewn stretch of sand, she could just make out rows of wooden pillars, a forest growing from the sea. Wedged between them and a rough cliff, rising from the dunes, was the base of a wide, wooden staircase, and there was the hint of lights, far above. Charlotte knew where she was. _Under the Pier._ Small, dirty patch of sand, under the Santa Monica Pier. Out of sight, forsaken; she'd come here with Henry.

She wasn't alone. There was someone - standing a little way further up the shore. Charlotte could make out a vague shape, tall and lean, more sensed than seen, but she thought it had to be a man. He didn't say or do anything, he just stood there. She was strangely glad for that. Somehow it was easier to lie here, cut and bruised, half-drowned and freezing in the sand, without a concerned lifesaver fussing over her. The shadow was so still, he might have been just a crack in the cliff behind him, a column of deeper darkness, night paling to grey around him. She would have very much liked to close her eyes and just sleep.

Something was snuffling at her neck, growling. _Dog?_ A big, white – or maybe black? - dog. Someone, or something, had dragged her from the sea. _The stranger's dog, maybe?_ Certainly not the stranger himself. But she didn't wash up on this shore by accident or luck - couldn't have, she knew that much. The man stood closer now than before. Had he moved? Had she closed her eyes? She could see his shoes now and the crease in his pants. He'd ruin his fine, polished black shoes, trudging around the beech like this - rough, dirty and wet as it was. Charlotte felt a stab of concern. Those shoes looked very expensive. He'd sure be annoyed if they got dirty and scratched. _Don't be__ridiculous, Charlotte. Why would he be more concerned about his shoes than about a half drowned woman at his feet? Be sensible!__Channeling your Mom again, are you Charlie?_ She felt her split lips tug into a sand and saline crusted smile. _Not just Mom - Henry as well. Poor, pathetic Charlie; can't think for herself. Poor, pathetic Charlie; can't even drown properly, in a Ladylike fashion. Drowning wasn't elegant. 'Ophelia' told a big, fat lie. So tired._

She lay on her back, starring into bottomless, glassy black. _Dizzy_. _Sick_. She felt like holding on to the ground, but hadn't even enough strength left to dig her fingers into the soggy sand. When had she turned over? Pale, weak stars were swallowed in a rising mist, blinking shut like the eyes of disdainful guardian angels. White clouds rose from the waves, invaded the beach, rolled over Santa Monica, swallowing it whole, dampening all sound and shrouding the city in solid, white fog.

Clammy, drifting, featureless white. Sounds - far, far off. All around her, drifting, swirling, ghostly veils of white, the heavy, putrid smell of the sea, and silence. A shadowy arch bent over her, a narrow band of opaque charcoal. Everything but that cleft was swirling, ghostly white. It cut through the bleak, depthless white around her, parting it, and gave her something to focus on. As she did, the shadow started to look a bit like a man to her, like a cloud bank would sometimes start to look like a giant face, or a flock of crows. The shadow above was formed like a man. Tall and skeletal thin, a stick figure man, swathed tightly in darkness. _Odd_. She felt a frown crease her forehead - which was numb and clammy - with concentration. Was there a face? Or eyes? Directly above her? Maybe two holes of deep, deep black. Something else peeled from the dark. Narrow and white, a sliver of wan light, reflecting – she thought of bones and then couldn't banish the idea. It didn't upset her. Her grandmother's fairytales had come back to her, gently and little by little, as the shadow had changed into something else. _Grim__Reaper_.

A shimmer of steel, between dark folds and thin, ivory digits. Bright, small and curved. Recognition brought a moment of ill ease, a remembered smell of disinfectants and shame. _Why would he bring that? What was wrong? He should have a scythe, shouldn't he? _But then, he would look really stupid, walking down Santa Monica Pier with a big old scythe and a flabby, black, hooded cloak, wouldn't he, Charlotte? No, a scalpel was probably the better choice, here, for the big city. For her soul. She watched the metallic glint descend and tried to say something, tell him - very politely - that she had changed her mind. _So kind of you to come for me Sir, thank you very much - but I think I've changed my mind. I think I'd rather not die, after all.__So sorry I troubled you._ But her tongue filled her mouth like a dead sea slug – unmoving; and the only sound escaping from her sore throat was an almost inaudible wheeze. Above her, a ribbon of lustrous red completed the black, white and steel.

0

And then she'd woken up here, on this couch. Feeling just fine, as if she had rested for a week, as if nothing had happened. She really, really had to move now and look around. How bad could it be, after all? Obviously, she wasn't in some kind of dungeon. She was in someone's well-lit, quiet, velvet couched, and grandmother cushioned, home. Shifting her weight as little as possible, she looked over her shoulder. A wide, oblong room, pale wallpaper and checkered marble floors. A low, wood paneled ceiling. Art Nouveau lamps on all four walls shed a pretty, gaudy light. Her sofa was pushed against one of the long walls; the only other furnishings in the room were three identical grandfather clocks, on the opposite wall. Nothing else.

It was like a thunderclap in this utter silence. Someone had taken a breath - a loud, harsh pant.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Blood roared through her veins so fast, she was getting dizzy. No, that wasn't possible, she was alone, she was imagining things, that had been her own breath, catching in her throat, taking her by surprise. She was such a scaredy cat. Henry always said that. He'd taken her to see the new Hitchcock twice; and both times she had to leave the show well before the film's climax. He had laughed and teased her about it, but she could tell it annoyed him. She just didn't _like_ a scare. She sank her teeth into her lower lip. She was shivering, but not from the cold. She would look around now, and there wouldn't be a monster; she was completely alone; she was just being fanciful.

She swallowed hard and turned her eyes - let them wander across her body - to the armrest at her feet.

A head. It lay on the armrest. Hairless, cadaverous skin spanned skull-like features. The nose was nearly eaten away. It grinned at her. Lipless mouth stretched away from pointed teeth, scarlet gums. The eyes - all pupils and much too wide, no lids. It stared at her. And that look…that look - was pure adoration.

An arm, matching the head, crept over the rest. Long and skeletal, chalky skin stretched tight over sinew and muscle. It angled over the barrier, descended, until an unnaturally elongated hand dangled over her ankle. She could see every detail of it, as if she was looking through a lens. It could have been beautiful. Long and narrow. _A bit too thin, maybe. _But the claws, the claws really ruined everything.

Slender sabers of blue steel. Rainbow colored lights ran over hooked, oily, razor sharp edges. They sprang from the fingertips, their base embedded straight in the joint, like knife blades in a hilt, cleaving the fingernail, breaking it into splintery pieces. Blood seeped constantly from shattered nail beds, jagged, twisted pieces of horn stood up at unnatural angles. She could see the small steel pins that fastened the blades, piercing through white flesh. The blade on the index finger _almost_ touched her skin. She could feel it close in – its approach tickled. There was a ladder in her stocking, running over her ankle, up her calf. The needle tip of that claw was hooked, ever so softly, beneath one of the unraveling nylon threads.

She didn't scream. Slowly, she bent her knee and drew her leg to her chest. And then, Charlotte Dreyer did something she would never have believed herself capable of - ever. She kicked the thing in the face - hard. It fell back howling - surprised. Charlotte rolled off the couch - she hit the floor on all fours. Scrambled up, kicked off her new, tar soiled, ruined, suede pumps - and ran.

0

Those… _freaks_ had been after her since then, racing her through endless, tiled hallways and lavishly furnished rooms, snatching at her with their steel claws, giggling like hyenas.

And the whispers had started. As if the house had held its breath, until it couldn't stand it anymore. Until it was sure she was awake. Her grandmother had always said 'Every house has its voice - and the older the house, the more it has to say.' If that was true, this one was a nutter and the stories it told were the kind Poe had wrote about. Logic said – "It's just outdated plumbing echoing, rafters and brickwork settling, old electricity circuits humming, defective steam pipes hissing – all perfectly ordinary." But something else, some animal sense maybe, said – "Not so. And if you listened, really listened, Charlotte, you'd lose your mind, too."

She didn't feel rested anymore, or limber. She was exhausted. She couldn't tell how much time had passed since she started running. It felt like a lifetime. And now Charlotte could hear them, beyond that dark doorway, scratching at the marble and quietly chuckling, as if this was somehow a game. A grotesque shadow wavered and hunkered down, just on the edge of dark beyond the doorway.

Charlotte looked franticly around. This couldn't be a dead-end, it just couldn't! No other room, no hallway, had just the one entrance, in this entire place! _A weapon, then? _But there was nothing, not even a vase she could smash. They would come in after her any moment and…_The desk. Something on the desk - pen, letter opener – anything!_ She dragged herself to her knees, never letting the doorway out of her sight, groping the delicate, lacquered surface of the desk for something sharp or pointed. Shaking fingers closed around something - cold, metal, narrow - and were retracted, to hold her find, her prize, shaking, before her eyes.

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare dumbly at the thing. A mirror. An ancient, silver-handled mirror. Cracked. _Wonderful -__maybe I can hit one of them over the head before they tear me apart. _Charlotte felt that sick laughter well up again and this time, it brought tears with it.

She sank back to her knees and let the mirror fall into her lap. The shadow in the door quivered; she thought she could hear it snigger.

* * *

_Now_

_In the upper rooms - those frequently wandered, those furnished like the salons of a Victorian dollhouse – the whisperings take on a new quality. Tentative and clingy, irritating but harmless – no more. Clear as glass, bright, tingling and sharp. Vicious and unintelligible. A swarm of angry insects, they attack every thinking being not native to this hive of precious fabrics, tropic woods and checkered marble, with malicious intent. They stab and pierce, impeding here, diverting there, like an immaterial swarm of homunculi made from manic laughter, venomous hissing, the tingle of shattering glass and fragmented musical notes. They aim to herd, to halt the alien wanderer, to turn them, confuse them. They sing a siren song of their own, for rabid dogs already aching to rip someone apart for their anxious Master. They endeavor to direct the attention of blood-slaves to certain rooms, certain hallways. _

_Futile efforts. _

_The stronghold's ghostly voices pound against defenses honed for centuries, achieving little. Crazed hyenas remain one step behind the slippery old viper, searching in vain for a faceless threat. _

_The trespasser moves on. _

* * *

**Afterthought: Next update won't take ****this****_ long, promise! *sweats* _**

******_PS: Errm - I'm a terrible liar? Who's currently looking for her lost plot. I know it was here, somewhere...Next update will take at least as long - obviously. Sorry, about that._**


End file.
